


Closing Time

by apple_pi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 22:08:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7658554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apple_pi/pseuds/apple_pi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Takes place before the War.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Closing Time

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place before the War.

Fred empties the till and puts the galleons, sickles and knuts into separate bags; all three bags fit into a metal-lined box, and that fits, in its turn, into a notch in the back wall of the fireplace. A pinch of floo powder and a murmured word or three and the box spins away to Gringotts. When Fred reaches into the notch as the flames die away, he pulls out a scrap of parchment, spidery numbers inked on the pale, heavy paper. They match the numbers Fred wrote before sending the box away, and he places both receipts in the till and locks it.

George and Verity make the rounds of the shelves, putting misplaced objects back where they belong and settling the more lively merchandise for the night. The pygmy puffskeins and their like sleep in cushioned boxes, and Verity pets their small heads before she casts a simple sleep charm over them and closes the box gently. George straightens three shelves of love potions that took a beating, and moves a box of Nosebleed Nougat back to the Skiving Off School section.

“I’ll walk Verity out,” George says as she hangs her shop robes on a hook in the stock room, and a moment later, he steps outside the door with her, into the winter evening. Once past the non-apparition spells that bind the walls, she waves and vanishes with a soapy pop. Fred comes out a moment later and he and George circle the building separately, meeting on the far side. “Finished?” George says, and Fred nods; they step through the back door and complete the security spells for the night behind themselves.

Upstairs, Fred makes tea as George checks the potions that have been simmering in their workroom, adding a pinch of meadowsweet here, a sprinkling of dried fluxweed there. He stirs one cauldron seventeen times counterclockwise and counts silently before stirring it six times clockwise and covering it for the night.

“Alright?” Fred asks when George comes into the kitchen, and George makes a face.

“The vanishing ink vanished,” he says. “I can’t tell if we made enough for the month.”

Fred wrinkles his nose and hands George a bowl and a mug. “I told you to mark the level this morning.”

“Well, I didn’t,” George replies.

They settle on the sofa to eat, the Daily Prophet folded up and ignored on the coffee table, tea mugs leaving rings on its surface. “Mirko’s was closed this morning,” George says when they’re half through their meal.

Fred doesn’t look up, but he puts his bowl down when he finishes the bite in his mouth and swallows, nodding.

“No sign of a struggle,” George ventures.

“I don’t-–” Fred rubs his hands over his face. “We’ll be fine,” he says after a moment. “The wards are good. We’ll be fine.”

“They’re as good as they can be,” George says. Neither mentions the picture in the evening edition, of the Dark Mark looming over Diagon Alley, over Mirko’s abandoned second-hand bookshop.

“I know.”

Fred picks up his mug and gulps his tea, but he leaves the stew half-finished and pulls his long legs up onto the sofa, wrapping his arms around them and waiting while George eats steadily.

When George puts his bowl aside, he sits back and leans against Fred’s side, shoulder to shoulder. “They bloody well won’t take us without a struggle,” he says at last.

“I know,” Fred answers, and they’re quiet for a while, until the whistle of a cauldron from the spare room calls them back to the evening’s work.


End file.
